


Lifelines

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, Geeks, Gen, Nerdiness, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 02:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7080370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre starts to remember flashes of previous lives when he is five years old.  That's all right, though.  He has a plethora of heroes to help him, from the X-men's mutants to Star Trek's vision of the future to the very real Grantaire and Bahorel that he eventually meets up with.  Armed with all that they've been and all that their current world hopes for them to become, they can take on even the darkest parts of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags, please. While this story is primarily about the way stories help us survive and navigate the world, binding us together, there is also discussion of spousal and child abuse.
> 
> Dedicated to 1001paperboxes, who originally prompted this story and who was a lovely source of inspiration and suggestions during the crafting of it. This wouldn't be here without you.

_**Chapter 1** _

Combeferre has his first flashback when he's five years old.

His family has returned to the reservation, as they do at least once a week. Today is a busier day, though, as the family assists with preparations for the annual Mashpee powwow. Due to his age, he isn't expected to participate in most of the talking and planning and is instead sent outdoors with his younger sister and a motley collection of their cousins, aged three to nine.

The older children decide that they will play Cowboys and Indians. He is too young to understand all of the political history or cultural drama that is involved in their choice of game. He only knows that the Indians will win, as they always do when they play this game, and that when the adults finally figure out what they are playing there will be a large, loud debate. He's just getting to the age where he understands some of what the adults say—that their people shouldn't play games that glorify or forgive a long bloody history.

Not all the adults will agree with that, though. Some will wave a hand, tell those who are upset that they are just children playing as children will, that no progress will come from teaching them to always censor their play or thoughts.

He is young enough that he only cares that it is fun. He enjoys running after the other children. He enjoys creating ambushes—is _good_ at creating ambushes, far better at that than he is at the actual running-and-tagging part. He enjoys it almost as much as he enjoys reading, and since he will not be allowed to read again until they go home, his parents insisting that he needs to be properly social, he will be quite content to pursue games with his cousins.

For the first hour of play everything goes normally. They run, they scream, they kill each other in various and creative ways, they goad each other on to more and more dramatic death scenes.

He doesn't know what it is that changes. He is trying to grab one of his smallest cousins, a three year old who has stumbled over her own feet and is crying while a group of older cousins advance on them, screaming war-whoops the whole time.

There is no reason for things to change. There is no reason for their toy guns and stick-arrows to suddenly be overlaid with visions of… _other_ things.

He sees blood.

He sees red, mingling with the dirt of a torn-up street.

He sees soldier's uniforms, and they are not familiar to the five-year-old but they are very familiar to the man who is standing there, the man that somehow is-and-isn't him.

He sees a wounded man, is struggling to lift him from the street.

He sees the bayonet coming, and because he knows what the end result will be, because he is not Enjolras and does not have Enjolras' courage to face these horrors always head-on, he lifts his eyes to the sky.

The sky is blue. He can see it, despite the haze of gunsmoke, despite the overcast Massachusetts day that his true eyes see, and he smiles even as agony spreads through his chest.

If he cannot die with his friend at his side, at least he can die in freedom, looking up at a sky that has almost as much depth and promise to it as Enjolras' soul.

Combeferre wakes crying, flat on his back on the grass, and his mother's face is staring down at him, terror in her voice as she calls his name.

His name, but he has other names, and the first of those, the one that he will share with the others when his fate-ordained steps bring him to them, is Combeferre.

He starts screaming then, a hysterical babble of words that doesn't scratch the surface of what he saw and what he now feels lurking within him. The adults don't understand, of course, and there is a part of him that watches with a sort of detached sympathy as his older cousins are scolded and he is bundled into a jacket despite the warm summer day and shoved into the car.

He has stopped trying to speak of what he knows and what he saw by the time they reach the hospital. Instead he is still and quiet, saying nothing except to answer direct yes-or-no questions, grappling with the terrible realization that his parents will not be able to help him or save him from this—a realization he always makes years earlier than most children must, though that not-his knowledge does nothing to assuage his five-year-old terror. The doctors at the emergency room pronounce him hale and healthy, declaring that he has no concussion and must just have been rattled by the fall that he took.

Never mind that he took no fall. It is easier for his parents to believe that one of his cousins pushed him too roughly than to think that he has seen impossible things.

When they arrive back at the reservation, he is bundled into his cousin's room to rest while the other children continue their play under stronger supervision.

It's there, still drowning amidst a sea of memories and emotions that don't belong to him, that he finds his first lifeline.

His parents don't read comic books. He has seen them tut and shake their heads at lists of important books that include graphic novels. He has seen them sigh at the steady trickle of comic-book-to-movie blockbusters. He has heard his father grouse that if radiation and chemistry worked as simply in real life as they did in comic books, his job would be much easier.

He has absorbed their disdain for the medium. Though he never says anything to the kids who bring comics to reading hour at school, he has always felt that his chapter books are better. It's a belief that's been reinforced by his teachers as they praise his vocabulary and his voracious appetite for knowledge that sees him reading everything in his vicinity, whether it's designated for his age level or not.

There is an image on the page, though, that draws him over to the comic as strongly as any opposing magnetic field could have.

The girl in the images is old, a teenager at least if not an adult. She has blindfolds wrapped around her eyes, and her hands are pressed to her ears as though to protect herself from sounds that she cannot bear.

Ghosts swirl around her, images that change with each panel, and as Combeferre turns the page he realizes that she is seeing things that haven't happened yet.

Is that what's happening with him? Is he seeing things that are to come?

No. There is something inside him, a quiet, gentle voice in his mind that tells him the visions he had were of things that have happened, not things that are to come.

There is still enough similarity between his own feelings and the pure emotion captured in the images that he feels an immediate sympathy for the black-haired girl with the X on her costume.

By the time they go home that evening, Combeferre has read all of _Astonishing X-Men_. Ruth Aldine, the girl who calls herself Blindfold, isn't the main character, but she is the one that Combeferre focuses on, studying each panel she's in carefully. Surely, if she can handle the pain and fear that her visions cause her while still helping to save the world and her comrades, he can, too.

Ruth is the first superhero that he falls in love with, the first to help him make sense of his own life when everything seems to be changing without his authorization, but she isn't the last.

XXX

Combeferre finds the first of his friends when he's seven years old.

His parents have finally given up on discouraging his investment in superhero comics, instead electing to try to police the books that he reads to prevent him from stumbling on anything too dark or adult.

He wishes he could explain to them that he has a head full of death and revolution. He wishes he could tell them that he's died at least a half-dozen times. He wishes he could explain that the reason he shies away, now, from sports and most physical games is that he never knows what will trigger a flashback.

He can't explain, though, because they won't believe him. He knows it from experience, the few times he's tried to ask his father or mother about the visions having resulted in agitation and staunch requests that he remember the difference between reality and fantasy.

That's all right, though. His heroes, the men and women and children who save the world on a semi-daily basis, often aren't believed, either. The mutants that Ruth taught him to love as though they were his own people—and they have, in many ways, shades of his own people, shades that the echoes of older men in his mind appreciate—the mutants are feared and hated and disbelieved by everyone. That is why they wear masks, why they hide their true identities behind codenames.

He cannot pinpoint exactly when his given name becomes his codename and Combeferre his true name, but by the time he is seven it has happened, and there is no one that he trusts enough to share his true name with.

By the time he's seven his parents have given up on coercing him into playing sports and accepted his focus on studies. It helps that he is happy enough to dance at the reservation, the ritualized movements separate enough, apparently, from any battle he has seen to not trigger a flashback. He isn't the best of the young dancers, but he is one of the most dedicated. He compounds the status that buys him by being the most adept of the children at speaking the resurrected Wampanoag language, often pressing his teachers for extra words or finer points of grammatical structure that they have to go research.

That means most of his free time is dedicated to reading, and he is a frequent patron at the local library. His parents usually allow him freedom to wander the beautiful, familiar shelves on his own. He can take any books that he wants to them, and if they deem them appropriate for his age they will allow him to check them out.

Their idea of appropriate for his age is not always the same as his, especially with regards to comics, and so he often spends at least part of his free time devouring trade collections before hastily gathering books to present for check-out. A few times he's given himself nightmares reading things he isn't supposed to; often he has found himself confused by storylines that seem to make no sense. Between the joy of exploring the superhero universe and the little thrill of doing the forbidden, though, he overall finds it well worth the risk.

That day, though, there is another boy his age sitting in the little alcove at the end of the comic's section. The boy has a trade twisted viciously in his hands, and Combeferre immediately moves toward him, intent on correcting the boy's abuse of the book.

It's only then that he notices the child is crying, big, rolling tears dripping down his face as he stares in disconsolate horror at the page. His lips tremble, his breath hitches in his throat repeatedly, and Combeferre finds himself stopping awkwardly in the center of the aisle, not sure what to do.

The boy raises bloodshot eyes to meet Combeferre's. His skin is a few shades lighter than Combeferre's, but his eyes are a brown so dark they're almost black, and his hair has a wiry texture to it that speaks of more mixed heritage. His accent is definitely local, though. "They killed him."

"I'm sorry." Combeferre settles down next to the other boy, crowding the alcove, and gently disentangles the comic from his hands. Smoothing out the pages and firmly closing the book, he studies the cover. Batman. A comic that Combeferre hasn't read much of, the Marvel mutants and their complex history having taken most of his time. "Are you sure it's permanent?"

"No, you don't _undahstand_." The boy's tears begin to give way to anger, his hands clenching into fists. " _They_ killed him. He was doing the best he could. He was angry and hurt and scahed but he still tried to join Batman, he still tried to do the right thing, and _they killed him_."

"I… suppose I don't understand." Combeferre sets the book carefully out of reach, in case the boy's anger causes him to think of doing something foolish. "Can you explain a little bit better?"

"Jason Todd." The boy sniffles, hugging his knees to his chest and turning away. "He's Robin. My dad had a bunch of comics with him, and I've been reading them when Dad isn't around to get upset, and then I saw this new book with him in it—"

Combeferre glances surreptitiously at the cover of the book, certain that it isn't new from the artwork, but decides that isn't an important point right now. When you're reading a story for the first time it's new, no matter when it was actually published.

"And _the readers killed him_." Another wave of weeping wracks the boy's body, though he is frighteningly quiet with his tears. "They _killed him_ , they voted to _kill him_ because they thought he was too dark and too bad and—and—" A true sob finally steals its way from the boy's throat. "If they'll kill him, what'll they do to me? He's _me_ , he's the dark one chasing the light, he's _me_ and they _hate him_ and I hate it and I don't know what I'm supposed to _do_ and—and—"

Combeferre pulls the other boy into a tight hug. He doesn't understand what exactly the boy is talking about with regards to the comic, but there is something familiar in his eyes, an old, ingrained pain that resonates with something inside Combeferre.

He allows the boy to cry on his shoulder for long minutes, the other child's fingers clenched tight in his clothes. The boy still cries too silently, as though afraid that if he is too loud something bad will happen. Eventually the boy's tears stop, and Combeferre pulls back enough to make eye contact.

"Sorry." The boy licks at his lips, his voice still thick with tears, and swipes an arm across his nose and face. "I just… wasn't ready for this."

"It's all right." Combeferre pats the other boy's shoulder. "I've cried about things in comics, too. When I first read the Dark Phoenix saga… I _knew_ that Jean would come back, but I still cried for hours after she killed herself. Being willing to sacrifice your own life for the greater good… and doing it with someone who loves you from the bottom of their heart watching… it hurt. Comics are awesome, but they can also really, really hurt."

"Yeah." Another sniffle, and the boy's voice is clearer now. His body slowly relaxes as he takes in Combeferre's nonjudgmental response. "I've always really loved getting to read the comics. My dad would get upset, said one day they'd be worth a lot, but I never hurt them. And I liked Batman. He's… he's dark but he's light, if that makes sense. He sees so many terrible things, but he still keeps to his code—no killing, no torture, just _saving_ people, even if he scares them. And Jason…"

"Jason reminded you of you." Combeferre nods, understanding that part perfectly.

"Yeah." The other boy swallows hard. "He tries to be Robin. He does some things he shouldn't, I know. He shouldn't have killed anyone. But he… he still _tries_. Despite his history, despite the fact that he doesn't really _understand_ Batman, he still tries."

Combeferre nods. "And something bad happens to him?"

"He dies." The boy's voice falls to a whisper, his eyes dilating wide. "The Joker beats him to death with a crowbar. And even that… even that could have been okay. Bad things happen. I know bad things happen. But then there's this _note_ , and it says that the readers _voted to kill him_. He could have survived. He could have gotten better. And they chose to kill him."

Tears spill silently down the boy's cheeks again, silent and less wrenching than before but no less real.

"I'm sorry." Taking the other boy's hand in his, Combeferre squeezes it tightly. "I wouldn't have voted for him to die. I know that doesn't change anything, but…"

"It's still… nice to know." Again the boy wipes his dirty face with his dirty sleeve. "Do you read comics, too?"

"Uh huh." Combeferre glances toward the shelves that have become one of his routine stops in the library, knowing that the time he has spent with this boy will make it almost impossible for him to read anything but not minding much. "I really like the X-men. My parents think it's too grown-up for me, though."

"I… don't think mine would care what I read here." The boy's shoulders hunch. "Have you read a lot of comics?"

"Most of the X-men ones, but there's a lot of comics out there. I still have a lot of reading to do."

"Me, too." The boy hesitates, then glances up at Combeferre's eyes again. "What's your name?"

"Combeferre."

He doesn't know why he says that. He doesn't know this boy. Perhaps that's why. There's a chance that he might never meet this boy again, and it seems… right, to share his soul-deep name with this boy who also shares his investment in comics.

He doesn't expect the reaction it gets. The boy pales, all color seeming to disappear from his face. His eyes go wide, his pupil swallowing almost all of his iris. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

"What are you boys doing down there?"

Combeferre groans, recognizing the voice of one of the assistant librarians who believes, even more strongly than his parents do, that his place is in the children's book section.

"Grant, what are you doing here again?" The woman stalks down the aisle in clicking high heels. "Do your parents know you're here? The last thing we need is for your parents and the police to come storming in here again. Come with me."

Grant shakes his head, though he doesn't resist as the woman takes his hand firmly.

"And you, young man." The woman wags a scolding finger at him. "How many times do I have to tell you not to come down here? These books are way too old for you."

"No, they're not." Grant's voice is a soft whisper, and he stares at Combeferre as they walk on opposite sides of the woman. "Just like they're not for me. Not with the things we've seen."

Combeferre's heart seems to lurch inside his chest.

"Grantaire." The whisper is barely audible, but it cuts through Combeferre's soul. "My real name's Grantaire."

Combeferre is still trying to come up with a response when he's gently directed toward the children's section.

Grantaire's eyes are still wide, and stay fixed on Combeferre as he is led away, following the continued pull on his arm.

He might lose Grantaire. After he's just found him, he might lose him again.

"We come here twice a week!" He doesn't care who else hears. "Wednesday and Saturday. Come find me! And check your book next time you're in the library. I'll leave something for you to help you find me."

Combeferre waits until he's alone again before darting back to the comic's section. He carefully smooths out _Death in the Family_ , pulls a pencil stub and paper from his pocket, and leaves a note with the heading Combeferre, his home address, his school name, and his telephone number in the front of the book.

He only hopes that Grantaire will be as desperate as he is to have them find each other again.

XXX

Grantaire finds him.

He doesn't call, which was what Combeferre had been expecting. He isn't in the library, either, the next time Combeferre's family takes him, and the disappointment of that leaves a painful lump in Combeferre's chest. The note with his contact information is gone, though, no longer carefully tucked within the trade paperback he had used, and he clings to a spark of hope that this means Grantaire will come looking for him.

So it's a mixture of gleeful joy and wild incredulity that fills him when he spots Grantaire on the playground at his school during lunch break. How did Grantaire get there? Shouldn't he be at his own school?

It doesn't matter. All that matters is that he's _here_ , that Combeferre has found—been found by—one of the others.

All that matters is that he's not alone any more.

"Combeferre." Grantaire grins at him, an impish white smile that reveals one missing tooth and a crookedness to the top row that should probably have him in braces. "I... well... huh. I thought 'bout all sohts of things t' say. 'Fancy it being the two of us who meet up first, huh?'" The boy drops his voice into a lower, more sinister range. "'Come with me, my friend, if you want to know what's happening.'" The boy's voice takes on a light falsetto next, his smile shier but no less wide. "'Why don't you come with me, huh, and together we can try to figure out what's going on? I'm sure with a big brain like yours we'll be able to make heads or tails or both out of this.'"

Combeferre giggles, giddy exultation overriding all other emotions as he returns Grantaire's smile. "I like that one. Though I think maybe I should get to be the wise old mentor. I can be Yoda! 'You me come with.' Though, really, if you want to talk... we can go over to one of the smaller tunnels and talk until recess ends."

He takes Grantaire's arm but has to let go immediately as the other boy flinches and rears back, his lips compressing to thin lines.

Combeferre frowns. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Grantaire keeps his voice cheerful, pulling on the wrist of his long-sleeved shirt.

Combeferre frowns, looking between his own shorts and short-sleeved shirt and Grantaire's pants and long-sleeved shirt. Why is Grantaire wearing clothes like that when it's just barely fall, the air a warm, oppressive weight around them?

The swirling morass of voices and memories that has been his constant companion since his first flashback sighs deeply, but Combeferre shies away from whatever it is that triggers the surge of sorrow and disgust. Sometimes he will dive deep into whatever flashes and glimmers of insights the old memories in his head can give, but at other times, to preserve his sanity, he presses his hands to his ears and focuses just on the present.

It's a trick he learned from Blindfold, and it works still.

Grantaire follows him over to the concrete tunnel, once painted a deep blue to match the sky, now chipped and scuffed from years of children clambering over, through, and around it. For long seconds they hunker down inside it, and Combeferre simply stares at this little piece of his past-future, unsure what to do.

Then Grantaire grins again. "I got a chance to read one of those X-Men books you talked about last time I was at the library. It was pretty weird."

"They aren't weird!" Combeferre feels heat burning in his cheeks as he frowns at Grantaire. "They're _cool_. I mean, they're not always... or often... very scientifically sound but—"

Grantaire laughs, quick grin sliding across his face again. "My favorite wears a red cape, takes his name from a tiny bird, and fights with a guy who dresses like a bat. Weird doesn't mean bad."

"No." The heat fades away from his face as Combeferre realizes that here, for the first time, might be someone who really understands what the comics mean to him—how they are a lifeline, a place of safety and sanity in a world that he can-and-can't quite understand. A way to embrace and shy away from the terror of his past, as he grows into the knowledge that is somehow waiting to encompass him when he is ready for it.

"Can I tell you about my favorite Batman stories?" Grantaire is all eagerness as he leans forward, hands on his knees. "Since you said you hadn't read any of them, I thought maybe I could tell you some of the ones I've read and then you could go read others." Grantaire hesitates, then adds, somewhat shyly, "And if you want, if you don't mind, I'll read some X-Men books, whichever ones you recommend."

They spend the rest of recess discussing comics, babbling eagerly at and sometimes over one another as they try to impress upon each other the merits of their chosen titles. Combeferre almost considers not going back into class when the bell rings, but he knows that his parents would be furious with him.

And if he's going to convince them to like Grantaire, to let Grantaire become a close friend despite not going to the same school or having any connections to the reservation, he's going to need to keep them in a good mood.

XXX

Combeferre spends the next three months carefully integrating Grantaire into his life. For the first time since the whispering memories assaulted him Combeferre is grateful for them, because they provide him with guidance as he throws all of his determined will into convincing his parents that Grantaire is a worthwhile friend.

He starts by introducing Grantaire to his parents at the library, telling them that Grantaire is a fellow book-loving friend. It's not quite a lie—Grantaire at least likes comic books, though he seems to have very little interest in any other type of book. He follows that up by bringing Grantaire home as often as possible after school, instructing Grantaire in how to behave toward his parents—respectful, quiet, showing off the sharp intelligence that Grantaire has but rarely seems to use in their own interactions. Grantaire does fairly well, though he seems more inclined to silence and a quick retreat whenever there are adults in the vicinity.

Combeferre hears his parents debating Grantaire when they don't think Combeferre can hear—when Combeferre is supposed to be sleeping, but he frequently stays up later than he is technically supposed to in order to read or sneak down the stairs to the living room door so he can listen to his parents' conversations and shows. He's not surprised to find them debating Grantaire, either, since they tend to debate over all his friends.

"But we have no idea what his parents are like or what kind of influence he's going to be on our son." His mother's voice is soft but insistent, as though this isn't the first time they've had this debate.

"I think the problem is more that we both suspect what his parents are like and don't want our child involved with something like that so young." His father's voice is softer, wearier. "Grant has been nothing but respectful and kind, and it's clear the boys are close. There's been no change for the worse in our boy's behavior. If anything... if anything, it's been nice to see the child reaching out to others his own age again. For the last few years he's seemed—"

"There is nothing wrong with our child." There is an icy finality to his mother's words that makes Combeferre wince, glad he isn't on the receiving end of the glare that always goes with that tone. "He's precocious, is all, too quick-witted to fit in easily with the other boys his age."

"Sometimes I think you're right." Again there is a note of weariness in his father's voice. "Sometimes I think about how advanced he is and tell myself it's no wonder he doesn't get along well with children who still only know how to read a half-dozen words and are incapable of comprehending what a negative number is, let alone an imaginary one. But other times... you've heard some of the things he says."

There is silence from his mother.

"When we were watching the Republican primary debates, he very forcefully proclaimed that 'there should be no time in which a proper democratic discourse could without hyperbole be called a competition where the winner is he who discriminates against minorities the most'. Then he blinked and asked me what _hyperbole_ meant." Combeferre hugs his knees tight to his chest, imagining with ease the sharp gesture his father will have made with his left hand as his voice rises in volume. "Then there was a clip where they played Obama's little speech about civil unions from the 2008 election, and the boy proclaimed that 'there can be no equality or justice in a system that segregates based on the nature of consensual love, why does it feel we're moving backwards from where we were two hundred years ago'. And his eyes, sometimes—"

"Stop." There is an odd quaver to his mother's voice, something Combeferre has never heard before. "Please stop."

"I'm sorry. Ah, love, I'm sorry. And I don't mean... he's an amazing child. He's everything we could have hoped for and more. I just..." His father sighs so loudly that Combeferre can hear it clearly. "When Grant's here and the two of them are running around pretending to be super heroes, they look like _children_. They laugh and scream and I have to tell them to be careful not to break anything, and I... like seeing that."

"And if Grant really is being..." Again there is an odd trailing off, a hesitancy to name something, and Combeferre shies away from the whispers in his head that would fill the gap, pressing his hands to his ears as he tries to forget his father's words. "I don't want our boy mixed up in something like that, because he _is_ just a child, even if he's... odd sometimes."

"And when he's odd... I never disagree with what he's saying. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps he's just a very precocious child." The creak of the floor, the rustle of fabric, and Combeferre knows that his father has enveloped his mother in an embrace. "As for Grant... we take the boy on his own merits, and we help where we can, as we do with all our friends. If we uncover something we can do to assist him... to help his mother or father or just him get out of a bad situation, like we did your cousin on the reservation... we do it. Until then..."

Combeferre turns and skitters on silent feet back up the room to his bed, recognizing that the end of the conversation is coming soon and that his parents will then check on him. He makes the trip with squinted eyes and slow, deep breaths, trying to ignore the him-not-him voices leaking in from the shadowed part of his mind.

( _no use hiding it_ )

( _name a thing to start to dismantle it_ )

( _have to find the others, help the others_ )

( _stay alive and learn_ )

He is like Ruth, he reminds himself. He may be swamped by visions, drowning in ghosts, but he will not give into it. He will harness and channel the incomprehensible voices of himself from ages past. He will be a hero, even if it hurts.

When his father walks into his room four minutes later to check that he's asleep, Combeferre is lying quiet and still on the bed, his arm over his ears.

He doesn't get much sleep that night, drifting in and out of fragments of memory that sometimes make sense and sometimes don't, but he doesn't care. His parents have decided to not only allow Grantaire to stay near him, but to keep him as safe as they can.

It's the victory Combeferre has been putting all his energy toward, and even if it is a small thing, it is a change he has made in the world.

It is his first step toward being worthy of the hope Ruth once gave him, and pride swells high in his heart, helping to keep the fear and confusion at bay.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2** _

"I think we should make costumes."

Combeferre hesitates, allowing himself to imagine, for a few precious seconds, what his costume would look like. Would he go with bright colors? Probably. The costumes he loves best tend to have bright colors, though he understands, now, as a more mature eight year old, that bright colors are less respectable than dark ones. Would he have a cape? He likes capes, though the X-men don't tend to have capes. Would it be wrong to include the X symbol on his costume? Does reincarnation—he thinks he has a name, finally, for the dark part of his swirling mind—does reincarnation give him the right to consider himself a mutant?

"I mean, we're _like_ superheroes, right?" Grantaire grins at him from his hunched-over position in the center of the tunnel. He wears his usual long-sleeved shirt and pants despite the broiling summer heat. They've been spending even more time together than usual since the new school year started, Grantaire having transferred into Combeferre's school after a few months' worth of Combeferre's parents talking with Grantaire's mother and finally agreeing to drive Grantaire home from school.

(Combeferre knows that there is something off in the furtive way the woman acts, how quiet and distant she is—a quietness that her son often mimics—but it is Adult business. He is just happy that his parents have given him more time to spend with Grantaire and, according to their arguments, given Grantaire a much better chance at graduating high school and going to college.)

"Well, you guys are like superheroes, anyway." Grantaire lowers his head, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. "You guys keep running in and trying to save the world and getting beat up for it but coming back the next time with your hearts still in it. I... maybe I can be a sidekick. I like a lot of the sidekicks anyway."

"You're not a sidekick." Combeferre puts a hand on Grantaire's shoulder, squeezing gently. His voice sounds deeper to his own ears, older, and he has to shove away a strong sense of urgency, an impulsive need to go hunting for their missing friends. Even if he wants to, he doesn't know where to go looking, and he can't even drive yet. "You're one of us, even if you sometimes doubt it."

"Yeah? Maybe." A look of deep uncertainty is replaced by a bright grin. "Doesn't matter right now, at least. So how about the whole costumes thing?"

"I like the idea." Combeferre chews on his lip. "But it would take some sewing skills. Maybe, if we design some cool ones, I can ask my mom if she'll help us make them."

"Maybe." Grantaire's expression becomes shuttered again. "We can design some during math class this afternoon. Oh, don't give me that look—you already know how to do fractions, let alone basic subtraction and multiplication, and I don't really care about math. You'll explain it better than the teacher, anyway, once I decide that it's something I should actually know."

Combeferre throws a half-hearted glare at his friend. "You're going to make my parents think you're a bad influence at this rate."

"By asking you to help with my homework?" A sly smile flashes in the tunnel's dimness. "That would be absolutely terrible, don't you think?"

Combeferre gives his friend's shoulder a shove. "Are you sure you're Grantaire, and not Bahorel or Bossuet?"

"Oh, I am absolutely sure of who I was. Who I _am_..." Grantaire looks away, body scrunching up again, arms and knees protecting his chest and abdomen. "How do you think we end up where we end up, Combeferre? Do you think... do we... ah, _hell_ , forget I said anything."

"Grantaire, don't _swear_." Combeferre frowns at his friend.

"Oh, yes, don't swear. Come back and die over and over again, but don't _curse_ , it might bring something bad down on you."

"Well, it _might_." Combeferre hugs his own knees, frowning and trying to disentangle his own thoughts on the subject from what his parents have taught him from the maddening susurrus of previous lives' opinions. "I don't want to have to explain it to my parents. But more than that... there's no need, is there? It's just me you're talking to. You don't need to get so upset and defensive."

"Says the man who will be able to flay people's hearts and soul in four words or less in a few years." Grantaire smiles, relaxing a bit from his tight ball. "We'll have to sign up for debate. It'll be fun and put the skills we know you'll have to good use."

" _Do_ we know I'll have them?" Combeferre rests his head on his hands, shivering as he treads closer and closer to the him-not-him vortex at his core. "We're different every time, at least a little bit. Maybe you'll be the great debater this time and I'll be... someone else. Or... I don't know. I don't want to think about it anymore, Grantaire, it's _scary_."

To his dismay Combeferre finds that he is suddenly blinking back tears, and he swipes at his eyes frantically even as the mental blocks he uses to separate himself from... everything else slam back into place.

"Yeah. It can be really scary. Sorry." Grantaire's hand is tentative but kind as he pats awkwardly at Combeferre's knee. "So let's talk about something less scary—something _fun_. I finally finished the trade you gave me—the one with Wolverine and the rest of the real X-men."

" _All_ the teams are the real X-men." Combeferre sniffles once, clearing his throat, allowing his mind to run rabbit-fast down this track that it loves, away from everything uncontrollable and unbearable. "But the team that's formed there is one of the most recognizable, and has a lot of characters who would continue on with the team for a long time."

"Well, it was really cool, even if it was a little weird. But I like a lot of the ideas—a living, talking, intelligent island! Though using mutants as food isn't nice. I guess maybe cool things don't have to be nice." Grantaire unwinds completely, using the fingers of his left hand to tick off points on his right hand. "And I do like Wolverine, you were right about that. He's small but he's tough. And I like that the old X-men just got to retire—it's nice that they could just walk away from the fight—"

"They all end up coming back, or joining other teams." Combeferre's voice trails off as he watches delight give way to sorrow in Grantaire's expression. "But yes, they did get to have a little bit of a break."

"Right." Grantaire rallies a smile that isn't quite as wide and bright as his previous one had been. "And I bet you like that they had a mutant just like you—why don't we pretend to be X-men 'til recess is over? I'll be Wolverine, and you can be Thunderbird."

Combeferre's own smile turns brittle, his confusion at what Grantaire meant by _just like you_ giving way to icy certainty. "Why would I want to be Thunderbird?"

"Well, 'cause he's an Indian, like you." Grantaire's smile falters, too, his foot starting to kick idly at the tunnel wall.

"He _dies._ " Combeferre can feel the ice building up, rising from his stomach to his heart, a current of cold that infects his voice.

Grantaire tries on another half-smile, shoulders hunching in defensively. "Guess that's just another way he's like us?"

"I'm not an _Indian_. I'm Mashpee." Grantaire should know this. Grantaire has been at his house often enough—has been with him to the reservation, even. How can Grantaire not know this? "Thunderbird was _Apache_. From _Arizona_. The _other side of the country_. And he _died_ his second time out with the team."

Grantaire holds his hands up on either side of his head, a mockery of the gesture for surrender. "All right, you don't have to be Thunderbird. I'm sorry, jeez, it's not that big a deal."

And somehow that hurts even worse, brings crashing down the walls between _himself_ and all that he used to be, words he doesn't recognize—privilege, erasure, cultural hegemony—trying to connect themselves to the mass of anger and betrayal simmering beneath the ice in his chest.

He runs.

It's not the heroic thing to do. It's not a _nice_ thing to do—Grantaire will worry, won't understand what's happened, will apologize again and again for slights that he is too young to understand (but not too young because he is just as old and not-old as Combeferre and would this hurt as much without that knowledge lurking dark inside them?).

It's not the _smart_ thing to do, either, especially because tears are blurring at his eyes again, and he runs headlong into a solid wall of human flesh.

"Steady there." A hand like a vice grabs Combeferre's upper arm, keeps him from landing face-first on the ground as he staggers backward.

Some of the tears have escaped, and Combeferre brushes roughly at them with his free arm as he blinks uncertainly up at the boy he's run into... and the six other boys he's apparently hanging out with.

"Watch where you're going, four-eyed _geek_."

Combeferre recognizes the boy who speaks—a fourth grader, bigger and taller than Combeferre, who has taken to shoving and tripping him this year those few times they come in contact. He should say nothing, he knows, maintain his calm as his father has taught him, but calm is not something he is feeling right now. "Better to be a geek than a sophomoric bullying _idiot_ , Carter."

Grantaire watches as Carter attempts to mouth out 'sophomoric' and fails, his face growing steadily redder. After a few tense seconds the boy's hands clench into fists. "What did you just call me?"

"He called you sophomoric. Like a sophomore—you know, the high schoolers?" It's the boy holding Combeferre's arm who speaks now, his voice lilting lightly over the words with an accent that Combeferre doesn't recognize. He's big, a full head taller than Combeferre, with red-brown hair and deeply tanned skin. He squeezes Combeferre's arm, once, not letting go, though his hold isn't tight enough to bruise. There's a dancing light in his eyes that makes Combeferre wonder if the boy actually _does_ know the meaning of the word. "It's very true that you're sophomoric."

"But..." Carter hesitates, face screwed up in confusion.

"Hey." Another of the boys, one of Carter's friends, points a finger at Combeferre's face. "He's been _cryin'_. What happened, have a fight with your _boyfriend_?"

Carter rallies at the implied insult in 'boyfriend'. "Yeah, what happened, _gay geek_?"

The anger boils over the ice, _before_ colliding with _now_ as threat brings the walls between himself and all-that-was crashing down, and Combeferre draws in a deep breath before hissing out words through clenched teeth. "He's not my _boyfriend_ , he's my _best friend_ , not that you'd know what that is, you bullying, egotistical, homophobic, xenophobic, vicious excuse for humanity. You—"

Carter loses what little cool he had left, face turning purple-red as he lunges at Combeferre.

The boy holding him by the arm twists, turning them both out of the way, and with a casual-looking touch to Carter's back sends the other boy down into the dirt.

Down at Grantaire's feet, and it's clear that Grantaire has heard at least part of the exchange, a snarl pulling at the right side of his mouth. He raises his eyes to meet Combeferre's, ducking his head again a moment later.

"Don't mess with my people, bub." Holding his hands out to the side, setting his face into a determined grimace that is clearly supposed to be threatening, Grantaire flexes his hands, and Combeferre can almost hear the _snickt!_ of adamantium claws sliding free. "Because I'm the best there is at what I do, and what I do ain't pretty."

Combeferre's not entirely sure of the sequence of events after that. He knows that Grantaire kicks Carter in the face. He knows that the rest of the group charges at Grantaire and himself. He knows that the new boy lets him go—shoves him aside, really, though in such a way that Combeferre avoids the worst of the stampede to battle.

He knows that the new boy throws back his head and laughs, a rich, eager, energetic sound, freezing everyone in place for a few brief seconds.

The smile on the boy's face is wide and feral as he surveys the scene, eyes flicking from Grantaire to Combeferre to their larger, more numerous attackers. "Don't worry, everyone. The God of Death has returned from Hell, so let's get this started!"

Combeferre loses all sense of coherency after that, the world dissolving into a series of elbows, knees, legs, and teeth to avoid.

He's far less bruised than he expected when a group of teachers finally comes to break up the altercation, and he knows that both he and Grantaire owe their relatively decent health to the strange boy.

A boy who grins at him, sniffling around a gushing bloody nose, and practically prances during their walk of shame to the principal's office. It's only when they've been deposited in the hard plastic chairs, the three of them facing their six worse-for-wear assailants, that the boy leans over and says something more, though.

"It's good to find you, Combeferre." The boy's voice is stuffy, his hands now filled with bloody tissues that he keeps poking at his nose.

"Com—" He can't complete the name, the syllables freezing in his throat as he studies the other boy again. "You're..."

"Guess who." The boy smiles again, but it is entirely different from the smile he had right before battle, broader and kinder, even if marred by the red of drying blood.

There isn't much guessing needed. Throwing himself at the other boy, Combeferre envelops him in a hug. "Bahorel?"

"Got it in one. Just what I'd expect from our resident genius." Bahorel returns the hug one-armed, the other still pressing tissue to his nose. He peers over Combeferre's shoulder to where Grantaire is hunched in his seat, shoes up on the cushion. "And you must be... not Courfeyrac or Enjolras... not Feuilly, he would've hesitated a bit more before kicking that prick in the face... Wolverine, Wolverine, who would want to be Wolverine... Grantaire?"

Grantaire unwinds, an expression of abject wonder and delight on his face. "It's really you, isn't it? It's really—"

"What're you three talking about?" Carter glares over at them, sullen and sulking. "What's a Com... Co..."

"Just make-believe. Just pretend." Bahorel slowly disentangles himself from Combeferre, pressing Combeferre back into his seat. "Just playing the heroes, since you guys volunteered so readily to be villains."

That starts another wave of arguments, verbal jabs that are prevented from escalating by the arrival of their harried-looking principal.

Combeferre doesn't care. He doesn't care that his parents are being called. He doesn't care that he's going to get his very first detention. He doesn't care that he has to sit and make nice with Carter for the next hour, trying to talk over their differences—as though _you tried to punch me in the face_ is something that they can agree to disagree on or find some common ground on.

He and Grantaire have found Bahorel.

Right now, that's the only thing that matters in the whole world.

XXX

"I'm terribly sorry to meet you like this." Bahorel's mother has her left hand clamped down hard on her son's shoulder as she speaks to Combeferre's mother; the sleeve where her right arm should be hangs empty, and Combeferre tries hard not to stare at it. Staring at people is wrong, he knows that, no matter what's different about them or what stories the difference might hide. But it's hard to look away as the wind scurls around the school and into the entryway where they stand, pulling at the empty sleeve, teasing the woman's short hair. "I'm afraid my son is good at finding trouble, and if he pulled your son into it—"

"It sounds like it was the opposite, actually." Combeferre chances a glance up at his mother and sees that she's smiling, no hint of suppressed anger hiding in bunched-up eyebrows. That's good. That means she probably believes him that he and Grantaire didn't start the fight—she's always been adamant that he mustn't start fights, but equally adamant that he can and should finish any fights that are started. If she agrees with his actions, that means he'll only have to weather a _little_ bit of lecturing from his dad. "From what my boy said, yours saved him from a beating."

"That's what he's been claiming, too." The grip she has on Bahorel's shoulder relaxes slightly, and Combeferre watches as his new-old friend takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. "The boy's always been a bit of a Robin Hood, I'm afraid—I think we let him watch and read too many superheroes at a formative age."

"With great power comes great responsibility!" Bahorel turns the full force of his bright grin on Combeferre's mother. "With our powers combined, we are anti-bully!"

Combeferre's mother smiles back, a hesitancy in the expression that says she clearly doesn't know quite what to make of the large but respectful boy. "While I appreciate you standing up for my boys—"

Combeferre rocks forward onto his toes, glancing across at Grantaire. Grantaire is staring up at Combeferre's mother, his expression frozen in a mixture of joy and longing. That look shreds away any lingering frustration Combeferre has with the other boy—Grantaire didn't mean to cause offense, he risked himself to defend Combeferre, and he desperately, achingly wants to be part of Combeferre's family.

_Is_ part of Combeferre's family, the easy way with which Combeferre's mother has picked both of them up from school and includes Grantaire in the phrase _my boys_ proof enough of that, but Combeferre doesn't know how to make Grantaire see that. Or perhaps Grantaire does see that, but the ties he has to the mouse-quiet woman and the lion-loud man that Combeferre has rarely seen keep Grantaire from accepting his place as readily as he should.

"—I'm sorry to see your son suspended during his first week."

"That's all right. It was during my first day four schools ago." Bahorel continues to smile up at Combeferre's mom.

Bahorel's mother gives him a quick, gentle cuff to the head, and Combeferre feels cold anger curl through him as Grantaire flinches back.

Bahorel doesn't seem to care, though, rubbing at his head sheepishly. "I was having _anger processing problems_ then 'cause Mama hadn't come back from the war. I'm much better now at waiting until there's _proper provocation_ to escalate things to a fight. Which there was this time, so we're the heroes. Which means we should get to go get a milkshake from McDonald's."

The pleading look that Bahorel sends up at his mother is so obviously staged that Combeferre cringes.

Bahorel's mother just laughs, ruffling her son's hair. "You are such an unashamedly hedonistic little rapscallion."

"There's no need for shame unless you do something wrong." Bahorel's words have the sing-song cadence of a lesson long learned.

Bahorel's mother shakes her head, turning back to Combeferre's mom. "Would you like to reward the little brats for properly defending themselves? I mean, I believe children should learn early not to back down from a fight, not to be ashamed of standing up for themselves. Not that I want to impose on your time, but we're relatively new in town... I haven't had much of a chance to meet other parents, and he hasn't had much chance to make friends—"

There's a rushed, hurried, anxious quality to Bahorel's mom's voice as she abruptly bites off the request, a blush high in her cheeks, a tension showing in the corded muscles of her neck as she looks past them all. Combeferre can see his mother's denial melt away in the face of the mixed bravado and loneliness radiating from the other woman. "I agree that children should never be punished for defending themselves—there are few bullies or threats that will go away if you politely ignore them, no matter what those in power like to say. And I would love to get to know you a little better, and it'll give the boys a chance to blow off steam."

_They need each other, to talk, to listen, to understand_ , a voice whispers in the dark susurrus of his past selves.

_We'll get to talk with Bahorel, and play in the ball pit!_ Combeferre's own voice crows, and he grins widely as he tows his mother toward their car, being careful to stop and look both ways before charging across the parking lot.

XXX

"Here comes Captain Marvel to take you down!" Bahorel crows as he catapults himself off one of the second-story ledges of the play structure, landing in a waterfall cascade of red, blue, and green balls about two feet from Combeferre.

"Bartholomew James, _what_ do you think you're doing?" Even before the balls have settled into place, Bahorel's mom has appeared at the other side of the netting that separates the ball pit from the dining area. "Do I need to come in there, young man?"

"No, mama." Bahorel settles down in the balls, so that only his head and shoulders are showing, looking sheepish and contrite. "Captain Marvel doesn't need any assistance right now."

"You're already in enough trouble, young man. You really don't need to get us kicked out of a restaurant the same day you got yourself kicked out of school, all right?" Raising her hand, Bahorel's mom points at Combeferre. "And you _really_ don't want to hurt your new friend, right?"

"No. I don't." Honest contrition fills Bahorel's voice. "I'm sorry. I'll be careful, I promise."

"Good." Giving a military-proper nod, Bahorel's mom turns back to the table that she's currently sharing with Combeferre's mom.

Rising up out of the balls, Bahorel holds out his left hand. "Captain Marvel hereby requests that we skip the fighting part of the team-up, no matter how fun that would be, and move immediately to the fighting-evil-together portion."

"We already _have_ fought evil together." Combeferre squints so that Bahorel's expression comes into focus, his glasses having been left with his mother. "Though I'm not sure you can be Captain Marvel."

"Why not?" Pouting, Bahorel allows his hand to drop to his side.

"Well, because Captain Marvel's a _girl_."

"So what? I could be a girl if I wanted to!" Bahorel tosses his head, his red hair flying out in a frizzing mess around his head. "Girls are super cool. Just look at my mom! But I think you're confused, because that's not who Captain Marvel is. All I have to do to be Captain Marvel is yell _shazam_ super loud, and not be afraid of getting hit by lightning."

"Light..." Combeferre frowns. "Isn't Captain Marvel the lady with the Kree-based super-powers? Though she had super-powers from other places before—her run as Binary in the X-men was kind of cool, the Brood are an interesting concept."

"The Brood... those are the hive-mind bugs, right?" Bahorel scratches at his temple. "I think they're in the other universe, though. Not the one with Captain Marvel."

"You're talking about two different Captain Marvels." Grantaire pops his head out of one of the tunnels, grinning as he points at Combeferre. " _He's_ talking about Marvel's Carol Danvers, the current Captain Marvel for them, because he's a Marvel nut. _You're_ talking about Billy Batson, DC's Captain Marvel, the kid with the magic powers."

"Right!" Bahorel clenches both hands into fists. "All I have to do is yell _SHAZAM!_ Then I get power equivalent to Superman!"

"You may have super lungs, young man." Bahorel's mom doesn't even bother to look at them. "But you can maybe take it down a notch, all right?"

"Yes, Mama!" Bahorel settles down cross-legged in the ball pit, gathering armfuls of balls around himself as he sighs. "Sometimes parents are no fun."

"Sometimes." Combeferre settles down on the floor of the ball pit too, beginning to grab as many green balls as he can and stacking them together in front of himself. "Though mine're pretty cool."

Slithering out of the tunnel that he's in, Grantaire joins them in the main section of the ball pit. "My mom's all right, too. Usually."

Bahorel tilts his head to the side, taking in Grantaire's long-sleeved shirt, his scruffy appearance. He doesn't say anything more about parents, though. "I'm glad that you guys're into comics this time around. They're so much fun!"

"They are. They're..." Combeferre frowns down at his hands, not sure if he should try to articulate what else comics have been for him. "They're neat."

"Art's always been one of the things that Amis appreciate. It's how you tell your stories and theories to those who don't have the time or energy to sit reading political treatises, not if they want to still be functional the next day." A bit of an accent touches Bahorel's voice as he talks about art—a French accent, the words that Bahorel from _before_ , from the first time they did this, would have used dancing just beneath the English ones.

How often has Bahorel fought for the arts? It was a regular pastime of his and Jehan's back in France, the Battle of Hernani a fond anecdote they would return to when someone tried to suggest that there was no point to the theatre. And since then? In Spain, in South Africa, in Brazil, in Syria, in Russia, in China—

"Careful." Grantaire's hand settles gently on Combeferre's shoulder. "Remember what Ruth would do."

Combeferre nods, drawing a deep breath, pushing the whispering flood of memories to the back of his awareness. They have fought for art before, many times, in many cultures, because art is the voice of the people, but they don't need to do that now. Not _directly_ , at least, though sometimes Combeferre dreams of seeing a Mashpee hero—someone that he can truly say _that's me_ about.

Bahorel stays quiet, watching them, his head tilted just slightly. Gauging, curious but not concerned, and Combeferre remembers with an aching lurch how much he loves this person. For all that Bahorel enjoys nothing more than a good fight, Combeferre knows he fights at least partially because bitter experience has taught him time and again that there is no other good option, and he is _smart_ about his fighting.

"Hey, if you don't mind my asking..." Grantaire keeps his hand on Combeferre's shoulder, though he addresses Bahorel. "When we were fighting Carter and his crew, you called yourself the God of Death. Is that a reference to a comic book, 'cause if it is I don't think I've read it."

Bahorel laughs, shaking his head. "It's a reference to a TV show that I've watched with my mom and dad. It's an anime—you know, one of the animated shows from Japan."

"I don't think I've watched any of those." Combeferre frowns.

"We'll have to! Some of them are really cool." Bahorel glances toward where their mothers are currently sitting, and his voice drops to a softer pitch. "We were stationed in Japan for a while—my mom's a marine. Dad watched out for me while we were there, and he found some really neat shows for us to watch. Then Mama was transferred, and we had to come back here, and when she finally came home..."

Bahorel pauses, his hands clenching into fists, and it takes an act of will for Combeferre not to glance towards the woman who is missing an arm.

"It's been hard, but she's still the coolest mom ever." Bahorel nods decisively. "And now she'll get to be friends with _your_ moms, and that'll be even cooler!"

Combeferre grins, finding Bahorel's enthusiasm as contagious as ever.

"That's all adult stuff, though." Bahorel waves a hand, as though clearing away spiderwebs. "What _we_ need to worry about is cool stories, and Gundam definitely has those! The characters in it all have giant robots, and they're fighting to try to free the colonies from the tyranny of Earth rule. Hey, we could pretend to be them! I'm Duo, obviously. Combeferre we could have be Quatre—he's cool, he's smart and nice and he has a lot of friends and he has these kind-of psychic powers, though don't let him in the Zero system, he'll destroy worlds. And you could be... hmm... maybe you could be Trowa? Because Enjolras would be the most like Heero, I think. Eh, it's not a perfect fit, but it doesn't matter. We'll be fighting in giant robots for the future of humanity!"

Leaping to his feet, Bahorel grabs a handful of the balls that cascade down off him.

Picking up two of his green balls, Combeferre bounces them off Bahorel's head in quick succession before the other boy has a chance to properly arm himself.

Bahorel spends a moment blinking. Grantaire uses that time to dive for one of the tunnels, scooping an armful of balls in after him.

Combeferre makes a dive for another tunnel, knowing even as he does that he's not going to make it.

That's all right. The balls don't actually hurt as Bahorel begins pelting him with them, the bigger boy's aim far more accurate than is fair.

As the sound of all three of them giggling and laughing fills the ball pit, Combeferre thinks life is going to be a lot more exciting now, something he is perfectly content with.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3** _

To say that Bahorel is different than Combeferre is to say that fire is different from air.

(That is an old reference, he thinks—a reference from the boy who grew up reading Greek and Latin and a dozen other languages that his current parents don't care about, not when they are trying so desperately to save their own language from extinction. It is a reference that makes inherent _sense_ to him, though, and one he has seen in other places. When the writers of comic books use elements to describe their characters, do they understand the long history that they are drawing on? Does it _matter_?)

Someone tackles Combeferre from behind, though instead of tossing him to the crisp sun-burned grass, as he easily could have, Bahorel picks him up. "You're watching far away again, Uatu! Best stay a little closer to home, if you don't want to get beset by angry Orcs!"

"I am not Uatu!" Combeferre squirms, though he's laughing as he does. "I haven't taken any non-interference oaths."

"Which is good." Bahorel grins, keeping Combeferre's feet from touching the ground. "You'd fail them. Interference is our middle name."

"Which is why—" Grantaire appears out of nowhere, tickling Bahorel under the arms so that Bahorel releases Combeferre. "We should be Star Fleet captains instead!"

Bahorel lunges at Grantaire, but Grantaire is far too quick, evasion being one of his best skills.

"All right, then. If we're doing Star Trek, I'm going to be a Klingon!" Picking up a twisted piece of fallen tree, Bahorel breaks off one branch, brandishing it like a sword. (Though the first sweep is clumsy and awkward, the type of move any child would make, the second shows a skill that even the original Bahorel would be jealous of. Which life did he learn that in? Which ghost guides his muscles, and what does it think of where they have ended up?)

"Run!" Grantaire grabs Combeferre by the hand, dragging him towards the back of the yard. "We've got at least another twenty minutes before the _Enterprise_ returns, so if you don't want that green Vulcan blood of yours all over the ground—"

"Romulan!" Combeferre shouts out the correction as he runs. "I'm a Romulan, and I'm a captain of my ship, just like you're a captain of yours!"

"I'm _the_ captain of mine." Grantaire grins, displaying the gap where one of his incisors fell out last week. "Captain James T. Kirk, at your service! For now, though, less talking, more running!"

"You won't get away, blackguards!" Bahorel charges after them, though Combeferre suspects the older boy could run faster if he really wanted to. "On my honor as a Klingon warrior, I will bring you to justice for the deaths among my crew!"

They spend another two hours outside, during which they have to solve the mystery of who _actually_ killed Bahorel's soldiers, talk Bahorel out of attacking them, solve several jumping puzzles to get to the enemy stronghold, and then attempt to broker a fragile peace between their three vessels. By the time Combeferre's mom calls them in for dinner, they're all covered in grass and mud stains, and Combeferre's muscles ache from exertion.

Combeferre's mother heaves a long-suffering sigh of exasperation when she sees them and then spends the next twenty minutes attempting to make them presentable, a task all three of them submit to without protest.

Bahorel is the perfect gentleman throughout dinner, chatting about school and about the places he and his family have traveled to. It's clear that he's charmed Combeferre's parents, and Combeferre feels a tight knot of uncertainty release in his chest as he watches the way his father ruffles Bahorel's hair. If his parents like Bahorel, then it will be far easier for the three of them to stay together—not that Combeferre would let anyone keep them apart, not for any length of time.

"Your folks are really cool." Bahorel makes the comment between bites of salted watermelon, kicking his feet against his chair leg.

They are sitting out on the porch, waiting for Bahorel's mom to pick him up. Once Bahorel has gone home, Combeferre will go with his father to take Grantaire home. The sun rides low in the sky, orange and fiery, though sunset is still an hour or two away.

Combeferre can't help but preen a little bit. "I've got a really good family this time around."

"You do." There's a wistful note to Grantaire's voice, though no bitterness.

(Bitterness usually comes later, Combeferre thinks. Bitterness comes not from one solitary problem but from the weight of the world, from a repetitive crushing of hopes; from repetitive demonstrations that not only is the world unfair, the people who run it are, too; from repeated failures chipping away at what hope remains; from repeated messages that nothing will change; from repeated disappointments. Has Combeferre seen it before, Grantaire sliding into abrasive despair about the fate of humanity? Do those memories linger in the whispering voices contained within his soul, or is he projecting that spiral from other experiences he has had?)

"You guys should come to my place next time." Bahorel jumps to his feet. "I can show you lots of new shows! Well, I guess only a few, unless you guys stay over and we manage to trick my dad so he doesn't make us go to bed on time."

Combeferre casts a look back into the house, but it doesn't seem his mom heard Bahorel's exclamation. "If that's the plan, we should probably be a little quieter about it."

"Nah. It just makes it more fun if people know what you're trying to do. More adventure! More drama!" Slinging an arm around Grantaire's shoulders, Bahorel grins at the other boy. "Once we've had _that_ sleep-over, we should go to your house, too."

Grantaire goes very, very still, his eyes wide and staring.

"I don't think..." Combeferre clears his throat, words catching on his tongue— _his_ words, the words that he has learned in this life, and _other_ words, names for things that are usually not discussed in his presence but that he knows lurk in the shadows of the world.

"We should." Bahorel's expression sobers, and there is a depth and gravity to his words, a distance to his eyes, that makes Combeferre think it is not simply _this_ Bahorel who's speaking. "Anywhere that you are, Grantaire, is somewhere that the rest of the Amis should be, as well. Where would we be without our cynic, eh?"

"In a better place, I think, sometimes. In some lives..." Grantaire shivers, his eyes squeezing shut, and Combeferre moves up on the other side of Grantaire from Bahorel, takes his friend's hand in a tight embrace.

"We are never better off without you. The human race is never better off with some of its brothers cast adrift, and so the Amis are never better with one of their number excised." They are his words but they are also _not_ his words, the cadence and accent shifting as the voices inside surge up, ready to defend—trying to give him the tools he will need to win this battle in the never-ending war to see light and peace prevail. They are not the words that _this_ Combeferre wants to say, though, and he closes his own eyes, drawing deep, even breaths. He is calm. He is at peace. He is a Jedi, touching all the lives in the universe, but he will not let himself lose track of which bright point of light is _him_. "You're my best friend, Grant. I should be able to see your family."

"You see them. You saw the disaster of a hat my mom wore this morning." Grantaire smiles, though it is a strained, hesitant expression, the humor that Grantaire tries to layer over the words feeling flat.

A car rolls up in front of the house, and Combeferre recognizes Bahorel's mom in the driver's seat.

"My place first! But then yours." Bahorel gives Grantaire a tight hug before dashing down the steps to meet his mother. He calls over his shoulder, once more grinning widely. "I promise it'll be fun!"

"I hope it will be." Grantaire murmurs under his breath. "I really hope it will be."

Then Combeferre's mother comes out on the porch, gestures for Bahorel's mom to come up and talk, and Combeferre finds himself huddled with Bahorel and Grantaire, waiting for the adults to decide what's going to happen next.

XXX

The first three times they go to Grantaire's house everything is fine.

Everything is _good_ , even. Grantaire's mother is a quiet woman but a remarkably good cook and home-keeper; Grantaire's father seems to enjoy joking with the three of them and playing anything vaguely sporty.

Combeferre begins to relax, wondering if perhaps he and his parents were wrong about what's going on at Grantaire's house. It's not like Grantaire has actually _said_ that he's beaten at home. It had just stood out between the lines of what he did say—in the fear he shows his father, in the unwillingness he showed to have people come home with him, in the long shirts he wore even when the New England weather made it a poor wardrobe choice.

The part of Combeferre that remembers things it shouldn't, that whispers truths into his head that he doesn't always want to know, watches the way Grantaire's mother demurs to her husband, watches the way Grantaire keeps quiet and still the instant his father raises his voice, and stays wary.

The part of Combeferre that is a child who has grown up loving the X-Men and super heroes and Jedi and his parents and his friends relaxes, glad to have _two_ best friends now rather than one.

Because even if Bahorel is difficult and much more prone to violence than Combeferre himself, he has undoubtedly become Combeferre's other best friend.

It isn't _just_ because of the past, either, though that is a part of it. The hundred voices that are all _his_ recognized Bahorel right away, and centuries of fighting and dying together have forged an unbreakable bond. Combeferre feels more _whole_ , having Bahorel in his life as well as Grantaire, and it makes him more eager to find the others.

(Will they find the others? He hopes that they will. He thinks that they _have_ , in the past, though he can't say for certain that this is memory and not dream-wishes, has no desire to delve that deeply into what-has-been when what-he- _is_ still feels too fragile in comparison.)

Bahorel is fun to be around, though. He is _brave_ , doing things that Combeferre wouldn't have imagined doing. It is because of Bahorel that Combeferre earns his first non-self-detention, when they are discovered in the boiler room of the school, hunting for ghosts when they are supposed to be out at recess.

Bahorel also knows a great deal, and thinks almost as much as Combeferre does. It isn't the same _kind_ of knowledge and thinking as Combeferre tends to do. Combeferre's parents make sure part of his birthday gifts every year are a subscription to National Geographic Kids and Discover—the second one started after Combeferre kept stealing his older cousin's copies once she was done with them.

Bahorel's mother buys him books on _everything_ , but poetry and myth and various martial arts seem to take precedence.

This is probably how Combeferre ends up playing the Blue Dragon Ranger to Bahorel's Green Phoenix Ranger and Grantaire's Yellow Unicorn Ranger.

Him ending up on the ground, though, is entirely Bahorel's fault.

And probably not something Bahorel is going to apologize for, the taller boy laughing uproariously as he helps Combeferre sit up. "Are you all right?"

Combeferre glowers at his friend, rubbing at his chest as he tries to get his breath back. "Would you care if I wasn't?"

"Of course I would!" Bahorel's laughter stops immediately. "Not only are we _nakama_ , protecting the world against the scourge of the Billionians, we're... well... we really _are_ nakama. I'm sorry you fell off the tunnel."

Combeferre stares at his friend. "You _pushed_ me off the tunnel."

"To keep us from getting strafed by the bad guys! They were firing exploding hundred-dollar bills at us." Bahorel pats Combeferre's shoulder, looking mildly chagrined. "I didn't think you'd fall."

Grantaire's head dangles down over the edge of the tunnel Combeferre tumbled unceremoniously off a few seconds before. "Combeferre just wanted to check on the laws of gravity again."

"Ah." Bahorel nods sagely. "Have we figured out how to circumvent them?"

Rolling his eyes, Combeferre shakes his head and allows himself to be drawn back to his feet and back into the game.

It's fun, really, the things he has been able to see and learn from Bahorel. There are super heroes in every country, it seems. Finding out that the action scenes in Power Rangers were taken from other shows that were sometimes more and sometimes less similar to what showed in America had been strange, but Combeferre enjoyed reading the subtitles for his friends so they could compare the two, and he's never going to complain about more super-heroes.

The world can always use a good hero, whether that hero has super powers or just sheer stubborn determination—though sheer stubborn determination tends to go along with the powers, too.

They're called in from recess ten minutes later, while Bahorel is in the midst of an epic battle with his own shadow for the fate of their starship-tunnel.

As they're reluctantly making their way towards the building and their afternoon classes—Combeferre with at least a _little_ bit of the reluctance being feigned, because today they're supposed to learn about sharks in science class and he thinks sharks are _amazing—_ Bahorel makes his proclamation. "We should hang out at your house again, Grantaire."

Grantaire stiffens, looking about uncertainly, as though the playground could tell him a reason they shouldn't. "Why not your house?"

Bahorel gives a dramatic sigh. "Because the last five times it's been my house or Combeferre's. I want to go to your house again!"

"I don't think..." Grantaire chews on his bottom lip, and they are almost inside when he finally stops, straightening with a brief toss of his head. "You know what? Why not. He seems to like you two. Maybe it'll put him in a better mood."

Punching the sky, Bahorel gives a war whoop. "We'll shoot for this weekend, then. Friday, I think. Convincing my folks will be easy—Combeferre, you start working on yours."

Combeferre nods, watching Grantaire's face, not certain how Grantaire is managing to look both terrified and triumphant at the same time.

Bahorel has to run off to his own class when they're inside, and Combeferre moves closer to Grantaire, taking the other boy's hand gently in his.

Smiling at him, Grantaire clamps his fingers tight around Combeferre's. "It'll be fun."

"It's supposed to be." Combeferre nods solemnly. "If you're not having fun with your friends, something's wrong."

"Like you're all dying in an attempt to make the world a better place." Grantaire closes his eyes, letting Combeferre guide them. "There's this comic series I read at the library—I wasn't supposed to, but we've read most of the graphic novels already—it was one of the funny backward ones like Bahorel showed us. These kids piloted a giant robot to protect their world, but each time they did one of them died—sacrificed their life-force to make the robot work."

Combeferre squeezes Grantaire's hand. "That's not what we do. And we're not doing much _now—_ we're just _kids_."

"Oh yeah?" Grantaire's smile becomes more honest. "Who was on the news last week protesting the censorship of books at the high school library?"

Combeferre raises his chin. "I'm going to have to _use_ that library in a few years, and my mom wanted to go, too."

"Your mom didn't make the news, though. Or at least, she wasn't as famous as you." Pride tinges Grantaire's voice as he studies his friend. "Or as _eloquent_. That's the word they kept using. It means _good with words_."

Combeferre doesn't point out that he already knew the definition. Teaching Grantaire how to sound out words and use a dictionary had been one of his favorite afternoons, and he doesn't want to discourage Grantaire from using the ability. "No one's liable to start shooting at kids for wanting better books in their libraries."

Someone jostles against Combeferre's back, a rough shove. " _Faggots_."

Whirling around, keeping Grantaire's hand tight in his, Combeferre raises his left hand to either defend or strike against whatever opponent is behind him. His lips are pulled back into a snarl of fury that would probably be inappropriate in a Jedi, so instead he imagines himself as a Starfleet captain as he prepares to use what Bahorel has taught him.

There is no one there, though. Perhaps everyone has already learned that it isn't worthwhile fighting with Combeferre, Grantaire, and Bahorel, since they are _definitely_ more stubborn than anyone who would try to attack them.

Grantaire is watching him with wide, knowing eyes as Combeferre turns back around. "No one will attack a kid _now_ for wanting good books in the library. But when we're older... or when the cause we're fighting for is bigger..."

Shrugging, Combeferre gives himself a moment to just breathe, the memories that are-and-aren't his trying to surge forward. "We're just going to have to be the heroes, Grantaire. The heroes never give up, and they never, ever lose, even if the cost is super high."

Grantaire is silent for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on the ground as they enter the classroom and make their way to their side-by-side desks.

It isn't until the teacher is starting class again that Grantaire leans over to whisper in Combeferre's ear. "You're right about the good guys always winning in our shows—our books—our _stories_. It's one of the reasons I like them. And one of the reasons I'm all right with you two coming over this weekend."

Combeferre nods, not sure he understands.

Grantaire doesn't clarify, though, settling back in his seat, and before long Combeferre is lost in an in-depth discussion of the class chondrichthyes and their fascinating evolutionary history—a discussion he suspects most of the class doesn't care about, but sharks were around during the time of _dinosaurs_ , and if that doesn't make other people think it's cool, there's something wrong with them.

The part of him that is a child forgets, by the end of the day, that Grantaire said anything strange.

The part of him that is far, far older continues to wait patiently, a quiet susurrus of mixed darkness and hope lurking just beneath all that Combeferre is this time around.

XXX

The first three hours they're at Grantaire's house go brilliantly.

Grantaire's mother greets them when Combeferre's mom drops them off from school, smiling and pretty in a long skirt and a prim little blouse. Combeferre's mother compliments Grantaire's mom on the way she looks before segueing into what she probably _hopes_ are subtle questions about whether the three boys are going to have a stern bed-time and whether they're going to be eating well and whether all the emergency contact numbers have been updated.

Combeferre ignores his mom, hoping that she'll stop being embarrassing soon, and descends on the oatmeal cookies and milk that have been set out for them. He knows from prior experience that if he doesn't claim his fair share fast, Grantaire and Bahorel will have eaten most of them, though they'll look regretful when Combeferre starts protesting.

Well, Grantaire will look regretful before shrugging and saying something about all joys being fleeting but this one being _very_ fleet; Bahorel will laugh and give a sheepish grin and suggest that they go steal more snacks, since it really _isn't_ fair that Combeferre not have something, too.

Sometimes Combeferre thinks that half of the things Bahorel does are just so that he can get them embroiled in _more_ adventures, even if their better sense says otherwise.

After their snack, the three boys sneak their way into Grantaire's father's study. The room is supposed to be off-limits to them, but it's where all of the comics and non-children's books and most of the DVDs are kept, so they've gotten very adept at breaking in.

A new stack of comics has appeared since the last time they visited, and Grantaire immediately begins rummaging through them, clearly looking for something in particular. Combeferre knows they will all be DC titles, since that is what seems to appeal to Grantaire's dad, but that's all right. He likes characters from both major superhero universes—and it's even more fun to imagine them meeting, which he has cajoled Grantaire and Bahorel into acting out with him more than once.

"So." Grantaire has whittled down the stack to a small handful. "You guys remember how there was that New-52 thing, where some of the stuff that had happened still did and some didn't?"

Combeferre gives a soft assent; Bahorel nods, his attention wandering to the far side of the room—to the area where they all decided they are never going to go.

(Combeferre knows weapons. The whispering darkness that is _him_ from a dozen different lives has watched guns change and grow and evolve, all held tight in his hand. He thinks, if he let the whispers overwhelm him, that he could explain the evolution of guns far better than he could the evolution of birds, which he carefully studied for the last two months. He doesn't _want_ to, though, so all of three of them stay away from the gun case and the weapons locked up there.)

"This is the new Superman." Grantaire settles himself by Combeferre, his hands fumbling eagerly at the slick pages. "He's still really cool! It's about a young superman, who's trying to figure out who he is and what he wants to do. He doesn't have his costume yet, but he'll get it—his cape is his baby blanket because it's indestructible since it's from Krypton like him!"

Combeferre nods, his eyes already skimming through the text on the pages. He doesn't mind Grantaire spoiling things for him. It usually just means that Grantaire's really excited.

They go through the Superman story far too quickly, and Combeferre finds that he likes it more than he expected. The writing uses big words, some of which he has to explain to Grantaire, but the pictures are vibrant, the action is big, and the story... it's the type of Superman story he likes, he decides as they set it aside. He'll definitely have to watch for more of it, either here or at the library.

Bahorel stays by them as they read the comic, though he's not quite as interested in comics as either of them are. Bahorel has a respect for words, but he doesn't read as quickly as Combeferre does, and spoken languages along with moving pictures tend to keep him more interested than static images. He doesn't complain, though, just as Combeferre doesn't complain when Bahorel wants to show them something he doesn't quite understand.

(These are the threads that tie them to this time, to this place. These are the stories that their cohort will learn, the heroes and the ethos that they will draw on for words and iconography. And these are the heroes who will help them _reach_ that point, the brave, broken, broad-stroke-outlined and minutia-covered heroes who will help them survive to fight on their own. They are _important_ , even if not every one speaks to all of them, and they all respect the ones that are precious to the others in their group.)

"This one..." Grantaire opens another comic in front of them, chewing on his lip. "It's... well, it's got Jason Todd, he's the Red Hood of _Red Hood and the Outlaws_. Still alive! And it's got a girl... well, just come see."

Bahorel settles down on Grantaire's other side as they begin to page through the comic, clearly drawn back in by Grantaire's stuttering and blushing.

The first part of the comic is fairly boring and a little strange, but Combeferre refrains from critiquing it too strongly. Grantaire still loves Jason Todd, despite all the weird, _weird_ story-lines that have revolved around him since he was brought back to life, and this isn't anywhere near one of the weirdest.

Until they get to the beach, at least, and Combeferre finds himself blinking in confusion at the pictures and the text. "Are they... they're saying Starfire _can't tell humans apart_ anymore?"

"Uh..." Grantaire runs his finger over the dialogue, shrugging awkwardly. "I think so? But with the whole New 52 thing I think that means she's always had a problem with it, in this universe?"

"That's _stupid_." Combeferre glowers at the pages. Starfire and Raven and the Teen Titans have been fun reads with Grantaire, and Combeferre doesn't like the idea of all of that being thrown out. "Plus I don't... I mean, she's always been kind of forward but she's just blatantly asking to..."

"She's really pretty." Grantaire flips back to the full-page spread of a naked Starfire.

The colors are pretty, Combeferre has to admit. Colors are something that has gotten steadily better as comics age. It's something Grantaire tends to notice more than he does, Grantaire having an artist's eye, but even Combeferre couldn't miss it. (They will have to share the different eras with Feuilly, when they find him— _if_ they find him.)

"Though she's also..." Grantaire's ears are bright red. "Her body's kind of... twisted a little funny. But she's pretty!"

Bahorel shakes his head. "I don't like it."

Snapping the book closed, Grantaire scowls down at the cover.

"I mean, it's cool that you like it." Bahorel loops an arm around Grantaire's shoulders, pulling him into a loose embrace. "And I've read other Jason Todd books you've given me and liked them. I just... there's something about the way that book does Starfire... I think some of the _others_ would be able to articulate why it's weird and doesn't feel right, but I can't."

The way Bahorel says _others_ could be one of two things—it could be the _others_ in their head, or it could be the _others_ that they haven't found yet, the people they are always, always watching for.

"We should go play something else." Combeferre rests his hand on Grantaire's back, watching the way Grantaire's face twists as though he's trying not to cry. "Would you like to play Bat-family?"

Grantaire's eyes close, his fingers crinkling the edges of the comic.

"Come on." Swaying side to side, Bahorel grins. "You can be Jason; I'll be Starfire; Combeferre can be..."

Combeferre narrows his eyes. Green Arrow has never been a favorite of his, and he definitely _doesn't_ want to be Roy Harper.

"Combeferre can be Wolverine!" Bahorel slaps Grantaire on the shoulder. "Wolverine gets into everything, right? Well, now he's gotten into the wrong universe."

Grantaire's eyes slit open, and he can't quite suppress a snort of laughter as he shakes his head at Bahorel. "You're weird. But sure, let's play."

They leave the comics where they found them, though none of them quite remember the correct order, and head into a different room to start their game.

XXX

The fight doesn't start until they've already been put to bed.

Not that they're sleeping. It takes a great deal to get them to sleep when they're all together overnight. There are so many things they can _talk_ about, so many things they can imagine. Combeferre's mother always says they're being silly, that they do quite enough talking during the day, and Combeferre learned early on that telling her she's wrong will just lead to both of them being upset.

(There are things they can say at night that they can't during the day. There are things the cover of darkness, the fuzziness of vision, the fluttering of bats outside and the silver caress of moonlight make more acceptable. Some of these are normal things—stories about their parents, about their school friends, stories about the stories that they love. Others are something else entirely, poems in tongues they don't know, the names of people they have not met yet in this life, the hopes they have for _this_ future, which will surely be better than those _other_ futures, and Combeferre thinks it is those his mother sees in his eyes when he says there are some things they cannot say in the day.)

They are interrupted this time, though, by Grantaire's father yelling furiously in the living room, and the soft, incoherent sounds of someone trying to hush him.

"—damn _bastards—_ don't belong—"

"—just _kids_ , don't _worry_ , it's—"

There is a part of Combeferre that doesn't understand the sounds that come next—the child who has grown up with two loving parents, who has been physically corrected by aunts and uncles and grandparents but only rarely.

There is a part of Combeferre that is far older than the body that he currently wears, and the sound of flesh against flesh, the staccato breathing of the injured who are trying not to draw attention to themselves, is far too familiar.

Grantaire huddles down under his comforter, only his eyes and the top of his head visible as he stares toward the door. His voice is a rough whisper. "Just be quiet. Just don't speak, he might ignore us."

Another strike, a sound that might be breaking glass, and Bahorel is sitting up in his sleeping bag now, his teeth bared in a feral snarl. "He's _hitting_ your _mom_?"

"It's nothing." Grantaire's eyes disappear, his voice somehow even softer, as though he could force Bahorel to be still and silent by being so himself. " _Please_ , let's just pretend to be asleep and—"

He can't, of course. He is Bahorel, and though he can fight _smart—_ though he _usually_ fights smart, picking his battles to do the most good—he is still a fighter. Has always _been_ a fighter, and _this_ Bahorel, how many of his heroes has he seen fight people older, bigger, stronger than themselves and come out on top?

Come out scarred, oh, this Bahorel knows how scarred they can be, has touched the stump where his mother's arm once was and kissed it, but he would not be Bahorel if he could run away from a fight where someone is in need.

Grantaire follows. He would not be Grantaire if he didn't follow, if he didn't value friendship above safety, camaraderie above self-protection.

Combeferre follows too, of course. He is not a soldier. He is not a hero. He is not the unshakable companion. If he could _not_ fight, if he could be Charles Xavier teaching the world to love even that which is different and cherish all the beauty and wonder that exists, he would be happy.

But there are other X-men that he loves, other heroes who have taught him when to stand fast and when to run away, and he knows that sometimes one has to fight for one's people. Sometimes one has to stand up and say no more, no further, or there will be no ground left to defend.

Are they quiet as they make their way to the living room? Combeferre thinks they are—the quiet of children who have snuck into forbidden parts of their school, searching for ghosts; the quiet of men who have run letters, weapons, _people_ past checkpoints where they would have been destroyed.

Grantaire's mother is bleeding when they enter the living room, her nose squished strangely flat, her right hand oozing red from dozens of little cuts that don't quite look real. A vase has been destroyed, lies scattered across the living room carpet like strange blue stars that glitter with every motion of Combeferre's head.

" _You_." Grantaire's father turns to point at Grantaire, his voice low and thick. Bright red spots burn in his cheeks, and there is a reek of alcohol to the room and the man that Combeferre knows from _this_ life. How many times has he heard his parents tutting about this bad habit or that, warning friends and family to be careful of their indulgences? "You _sneaky_ , ungrateful little—"

Bahorel puts himself between Grantaire and his father, his hands clenched into fists at his side. "Did you hit her?"

The appearance of another child between him and Grantaire seems to give the man pause, though he recovers after a moment. "Yeah. I did. Sometimes you have to give someone a good whipping so they—"

Combeferre almost doesn't see Bahorel move, the other boy darting forward. Bahorel punches up with all his might, burying his fist in the big man's stomach; his knee rises, delivering a sharp jab to the man's groin. "My mama says _never_ hit a lady unless you want to get hit _yourself_ , harder."

For one brief, beautiful moment Combeferre thinks that Bahorel's done it, ending the fight before it could escalate further as the man doubles up.

Then one beefy arm comes out, cuffs Bahorel to the side with vicious force, and Combeferre doesn't know who's yelling the loudest—Grantaire, Grantaire's father, the woman bleeding on the floor, Combeferre himself.

Grantaire jumps into the fray, landing on his father's left arm and biting down with vicious force as Bahorel staggers upright.

Combeferre doesn't stay to see more. He has seen bruises before, on Grantaire's arms and legs; if Grantaire and Bahorel are electing to fight back, how much worse will it be?

He could join in the fight. He could try to bite and kick and punch his way to freeing his friends.

Or he could be himself. He knows what his own physical limits are—and they are many. He is small, and he is young, and Grantaire's father could probably break him without even noticing.

Some things, though, make equals out of everyone.

How long has it been since he held a gun in his hand? Not that long, he thinks. Did he die with one in hand, last time? The memory beats at the back of his thoughts, painful, threatening, but he knows that there isn't time to let it consume him now.

Later, if it must, if payment must be exacted for the knowledge that he draws on, but not now. Now, he has to be the hero that he has always known he can be, because _hero_ is just another way to say _human_ , in the end.

The guns are in cases, but the keys to the cases are in the locks, and Combeferre easily opens the smallest one. He doesn't need or want a large gun, not for what he needs to do.

The safety is on, but the gun is loaded, and Combeferre spends half a minute making sure he understands how it works. How little these have changed, really, in a hundred and sixty years... and how much they have, this little thing probably packing as much power as the weapons he carefully smuggled for the revolution thirty years ago.

When he walks back into the living room, Combeferre knows that he should be frightened. He should be absolutely terrified by what is happening, and what he is about to do.

_We have killed kings_ , the darkness lurking in the back of his head whispers.

_We have killed brothers and sisters in the hopes of saving all,_ a cacophony of voices hisses into the space where terror should now be.

_We have_ died _,over and over, to make the world a better place._ He has known that, since he first tripped and fell and _remembered_ , but it seems more _important_ now.

He has fought and he has killed and he has _died_ , and so have the others who stand here. So has Bahorel, and so has Grantaire, and maybe so has the woman who is hanging onto her husband's neck, screaming at him to stop hitting the children.

If Combeferre can do all that for ideals, for _hope_ , then he can do this to save a friend from immediate pain.

His stance is perfect, he knows. If the gun is accurate at all—and it _should_ be, oh, it should be so much more accurate than those he used when he first fought—his shot won't miss. " _Stop._ "

He expects his voice to be deeper than it is. He expects his voice to be someone _else's_ voice—one of the myriad voices swirling through his head, one of the voices that has had to scream over gunfire and the howls of the injured. It is just a child's voice, still, small and shrill, and it doesn't stop anything.

It does draw attention, though, and once everyone sees the weapon in his hands they follow his order, at least temporarily.

_It should not take force to earn respect_ , one of the furious voices hisses, but Combeferre doesn't have time to think about that.

Grantaire is bleeding, his face a red mask; Bahorel has a broken arm, the way it is twisted far too familiar to many of the voices whispering in Combeferre's mind. Grantaire's mother seems dazed as the fighting grinds to a halt, her hold on her husband's neck slackening until he is able to pull free.

"You're a very, very bad boy." Grantaire's father is also bleeding, though his injuries are nothing compared to the ones he has doled out. He steps toward Combeferre, still confident. "If you put the gun down now, maybe I won't—"

He didn't think Combeferre would do it. He didn't think a child could stand up to him—was too drunk or too stubborn or too stupid to look into Combeferre's eyes and see what was really looking back at him. To see what has _always_ been looking back at him from Grantaire's eyes—to see another human being, of equal worth and value, willing to stand up and defend what is precious.

The first bullet catches the man high in the right shoulder. It strikes closer to the chest than Combeferre had intended, a combination of no glasses and Combeferre's small frame not quite absorbing the kick well enough making it impossible for him to aim more accurately.

The man starts back, looking at the injury in bewilderment, and then tries to move forward again.

The second bullet catches the man in the left leg, and this time when he falls, he stays down.

"Pressure." Combeferre lowers the weapon, though he keeps it gripped tight between his tingling fingers. "Someone should put pressure on the wounds."

It is the old parts that say that—that _know_ that, have learned that pressure on a bleeding injury is one of the medical aphorisms that tends not to change.

"And..." He breath hitches a little bit in his throat as Combeferre's eyes rake over the living room. "And we should... we should call 911."

It is the new part of Combeferre that says it, the part that has been trained over and over to call 911 if there is an emergency. He even takes a handful of steps toward the phone, but he can't seem to remember how to _let go_ of the gun in his hands, and by the time he is standing in front of the phone he is crying too strongly to be comprehensible to an operator, anyway.

XXX

Bahorel calls the police, his words defiant despite the pain he must be in.

Grantaire and Grantaire's mother work on the bleeding man on the floor, with Combeferre staying out of the way, keeping watch with his gun.

Three ambulances come. One takes Grantaire's father away; the second takes Grantaire's mother, and tries to take Grantaire, but Grantaire refuses to go and the officers don't make him. The last one tries to take Bahorel away, but the three children throw enough of a fit that the officer on duty requests the paramedics just take the three of them together, since they will all need to be examined anyway.

They have a little bit of time to themselves while the paramedics and the police and the doctors sort out who should be taken where, and what should happen. Combeferre and Bahorel's parents have undoubtedly been called—since at least three people asked for his home phone number, Combeferre _hopes_ they have been called—but they aren't here yet.

Bahorel is quieter than usual, probably due to pain. Grantaire stares at the floor in front of him, his arms hugged around his chest. Combeferre feels like he should say something, but he's not sure what, so he, too, stays quiet.

"It's not..." Bahorel shifts, wincing as his broken arm moves. "It's not always like this for you, is it, Grantaire?"

"Huh?" Grantaire lifts his head, and Combeferre knows that he wasn't _there—_ wasn't with the voices and the memories that don't belong—because his eyes darken as he reaches for that hidden, dangerous part of himself. "Oh, no. This is the first... no, maybe the second... time it's been like this. Back in France they were good people, my parents. Silly and selfish, and terrible in the way that silly and selfish people are when the world around them is rotting, but they loved me. They didn't _know_ me, or understand what I was seeing and saying when I talked of the Amis and your hopes, but they loved me in their own way, and they never struck me. They weren't like _him_."

"Do you think..." Combeferre speaks slowly, carefully, his head pounding as he teases answers from the looming memories. "Do you think we knew him? Your father. Or..."

Grantaire shrugs, looking away. "Does it matter?"

"No." Scooting his chair closer to Grantaire's, Combeferre reaches out and takes his hand. With his other he reaches towards Bahorel, not surprised to find that Bahorel's fingers clasp on to him as though for dear life. "Every life is different. Every time we have to face different things. Fight different fights."

_Not always so different_ , the memories whisper in his head. _Not so different when there is always a fight, always the oppression, always the weapons._

"My parents were peasants, the first time." Bahorel grins, and though the face is different, the expression is so similar to the man that spoke French in Paris so many years ago it freezes Combeferre's breath in his throat. "Everyone knows that, of course. And some things haven't changed. But some things... they're _saving_ languages, now. Instead of trying to eliminate anything different from the standard."

Combeferre knows words in a language that was once thought dead, and they teeter on the edge of his tongue, driving back the shadows with their susurrus of old-life words.

"There's always light, to go with the darkness." Grantaire closes his eyes, his fingers tight around Combeferre's. "Things are better... even I can see that things are better. Not perfect, not pretty, but _better_ , and we can make it better _still_ , and I don't want... I don't want _him_ to make me bitter and hopeless. I don't. I want to be a _hero_ , like you and Bahorel and—and everyone."

Grantaire's voice stumbles, and Combeferre knows whose name almost was said before _everyone_ , but everyone is a fair enough substitution right now.

Bahorel stands up, disentangling his hand from Combeferre's so that he can move to Grantaire's other side. Sitting down by Grantaire, he throws his good arm around Grantaire's shoulders. "You _are_ a hero, Grantaire. You tried to protect me and your mom. We're _all_ heroes, the three of us. Not because of things from _before_ , but because of things we did _now_."

"Before..." Combeferre closes his eyes, staring into the dark morass of memories. It somehow seems less... _real_ now, less immediate and pressing than it has in the past. "Who we were... it gives a foundation. Something that we build on. But it's not _all_ that we are. And foundations can be re-poured. Re-done, if we don't like how they look."

"How many heroes have we read about and watched and dreamed about?" Bahorel throws back his head, his eyes burning bright with passion. "What makes a hero isn't what's come before, it's what they do in the moment. When they have to make a _choice_ , what choice do they make? And you've chosen us, every time, in the past. And this time... this time you chose us, too. Even if it was a smaller choice, with bigger ones to come—"

Grantaire starts crying, then, interrupting whatever grand declaration Bahorel was going to make, and they spend a few minutes just huddled together, three small voices in a world that they helped shape.

Eventually Grantaire's sobs slow, and he wipes his nose on his sleeve, glancing between the two of them. "Do you think... do you think we're always going to be able to remember?"

Combeferre shrugs, studying the ground that is too far away for him to kick easily as he frowns. "I... don't know."

"Some adults claim to remember past lives." Bahorel's tone is grumpy, challenging. "Why should we forget?"

"I don't want to." Grantaire's hands cling desperately to them. "I want us to stay together. I don't want _this_ to break us apart. And I want to remember, so we can find the others and we can..."

They can what? Do what they have always done, and Combeferre can't _remember_ if he could remember in other lives, the voices that always seem to want to whisper suddenly going still and silent. "It doesn't matter whether we remember or not. I _hope_ that we do—it's always better to remember—but if we don't... we're friends _here_. Now. And if the others are out there... can you imagine a world where we _don't_ love them?"

Grantaire gives his head a slight shake, his voice quiet. "No."

"Even if I could, I wouldn't." Bahorel makes the declaration into a challenge, flinging it out to the universe. "We'll find them. We'll sing songs and write papers and draw comics and be _amazing_ together, and somewhere along the line we'll make the world a better place."

"Because that's what we do." Combeferre hugs Grantaire, Bahorel's arm warm against his. "That's who we are. And you, Grantaire, you're one of us."

"I'll try to be." Turning his head to the ceiling, Grantaire gives a long sniffle. "And with you guys to help me—"

Combeferre's parents arrive then, in a flurry of questions and declarations and grasping hands. Bahorel's parents aren't far behind.

They don't mean to separate them, Combeferre doesn't think. They are just frightened, and focused on the child that they recognize as their own. It isn't until Bahorel starts howling defiance and Combeferre squirms out of his mother's hands to run back to Grantaire's side that the adults even seem to notice the other boy.

That's all right, though. It doesn't matter if the adults remember to keep Grantaire with them. Bahorel and Combeferre are going to keep him close, one fragment of the Amis holding together with all their might, and there is nothing that the universe can do to stop them.

XXX

It could so easily have fallen apart after that.

They could so easily have been separated, their parents pulling them apart, doing everything that they could to mitigate damage only to their own child. It almost _does_ happen that way, Combeferre will think in retrospect. Bahorel's mother is a lion, and even a three-legged lion can maul anything that she thinks is after her cub.

Her cub is just as fierce as she is, though, a mini-lion in training who has learned of honor and temerity and loyalty at her knee, and he won't allow personal affection to blind her to the bonds that they have forged over the last months.

"I had to protect them, Mama." Bahorel's voice carries easily through the hospital corridors, somehow higher-pitched than Combeferre had expected. "And now _you_ have to help me make sure that it wasn't in vain. Please."

When the soldier comes into the room minutes later, Combeferre can see the tension and uncertainty in his parents' faces.

"Well." The woman places her remaining hand on her hip, studying Combeferre intently. "We've raised some damn good kids. Want to try being worthy of them?"

Combeferre's mother laughs, a tense, uncertain sound, and looks at his father.

They have reason to be wary. Combeferre is the one who has done the most dangerous thing, using firearms to protect his friends. In theory it should be an open-and-shut case of self defense; theory and practice are not always the same, those of the First Nations know.

His father's hand lands on his shoulder, and Combeferre meets his father's eyes, trying to be just the child that he is supposed to be.

Straightening, his father nods at Bahorel's mom. "I think we could do nothing less."

Throwing his arms around both his parents in turn, Combeferre hopes first that everything will be all right, and second that this won't be the life where he has a very early criminal record.

XXX

The next three months are a mess of lawyers and police and judges and family arguments.

Because they are minors the authorities try to keep his and Grantaire's and Bahorel's names out of the press. This is only somewhat successful in keeping their identities secret, though, especially when talk of charging Combeferre with attempted murder comes up and the tribe gets involved.

Grantaire's mother stands with them. Combeferre the child had been certain she would, since he protected her; Combeferre the not-child, the collection of half-accessible memories, had feared she wouldn't. She loves her child, though, and Combeferre's parents had helped break her abusive husband's hold when they talked her into changing Grantaire's school, and when Bahorel's mother insists that she and Grantaire move in with them, her loyalty is won.

It's still not an easy victory, though both parts of Combeferre, young and old, rage against the injustice.

It is not a victory without cost, either. There are so many interviews, each one dangerous, and Combeferre learns early on to hide everything that is not the young traumatized child they expect him to be. He wants to do nothing to undermine his parents and their efforts.

Bahorel and Grantaire do the same, he thinks.

By the time Combeferre is declared innocent, Grantaire's father jailed, he can barely remember why it was that he first started asking the others to call him Combeferre, though the nickname is still precious to him.

Maybe it's for the best. Maybe it's what is meant to happen. Maybe they only remembered for a time, to ensure that they would have have the abilities needed to survive.

(To survive until what? Why them and not others? Unless others remember, too, but not enough to know _why_ , not enough to know _what_.)

Sitting with Bahorel and Grantaire when everything is finally done, Combeferre takes his friends' hands in his.

There are others they are supposed to find, he thinks, though he doesn't remember why. There are things they are supposed to do—though he doesn't remember what.

Jumping to his feet, Bahorel grins down at the two of them. "Come on, guys! Let's be X-men for a little bit!"

Bahorel chooses Gambit this time. Bahorel is still more familiar with the animated cartoons for the X-men than with the comics, and since he spent six weeks with his arm in a cast he is less inclined to choose Wolverine as his go-to character.

Grantaire chooses Deadpool. He is only kind-of sort-of an X-man, but they recently finished reading a few trades in the library with Deadpool running around with Cable, so Combeferre figures it's all right.

Combeferre chooses Blindfold again, finding comfort in his old familiar hero, and laughs as he chases after the other two, happy just to be with his friends for a little bit longer.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Epilogue** _

They find the others in fits and starts.

Middle school brings a bright young girl with a Cheshire cat grin, a frightening knowledge of politics, and a deep love of musicals. Combeferre loves her the moment he meets her, and he spends several weeks teased by both Bahorel and Grantaire before she whispers his name—his _true_ name—into his ear and he _knows_ her.

_Courfeyrac_ , a part of Combeferre that he had begun to think was only a dream screams, and after that the teasing is only _half_ as strong from the others.

They teach Courfeyrac about comics and anime; Courfeyrac somehow convinces her parents to bring them to see a musical a month, and Bahorel takes up singing as yet another hobby.

The second half of the year brings two more women to their group—well, Bahorel brings them to the group. One is a Doctor Who fan with a tendency to wear T-shirts that combine politics, puns and shows, which is how they caught Bahorel's attention; the other is a surprisingly adept game master for role playing games, despite a tendency to roll ones.

_Joly_ and _Bossuet_ , they start calling them within two weeks, and Combeferre has to excuse himself from their game session and blink tears from his eyes. How can he be so happy and so frustrated? Who is he looking for? What is it that he wants?

Grantaire comes to find him, spends a quiet moment with his hand on Combeferre's shoulder and his eyes fixed on a past that is cloudy and lost. Grantaire has been attached at the hip to Bossuet and Joly since Bahorel brought them to the group, but Combeferre knows Grantaire is waiting for the same thing he is.

Prouvaire they find their first year in high school. He is the writer of the school newspaper, a poet and a reporter and the creator of a religious exchange club. Bahorel joins immediately, and Combeferre joins more hesitantly. Prouvaire has nothing but respect for Combeferre's culture, though, allowing him to share or not share information as he sees fit, and by the end of the first meeting the half-assembled Amis are all calling him _Jehan_.

Which leaves them missing only two, but those two prove hard to find. By the time everyone is applying for college, Combeferre doesn't remember exactly who it is that they are missing, just that _someone—two_ someones—who should be present aren't.

They will be old enough to vote in the next election, which is to be a contentious one. Their group has far more that holds them together than politics, but politics takes precedence over role-play as arguments over ballot measures begin to take over the news. The Amis organize their fellow students to attend rallies when they can, and it's there that they finally, after far too long, find their missing members.

One is a beautiful, dark-skinned man with curling blond hair; the other is a small woman of Asian descent with fierce eyes. They are about the same age as the rest of the Amis, though they take the stage at the rally and speak with gravitas—first the Asian woman, her voice trembling with emotion, and then the dark-skinned man, his eyes bright with admiration and agreement as he takes the microphone from her.

"Ah, now _this_ is something I hadn't expected." Bahorel whispers the words into Combeferre's ear, his voice holding the faintest trace of an accent—an accent that he shouldn't have, that hasn't touched his voice since long ago when they were children.

"I _know_ him." Courfeyrac is practically vibrating at Combeferre's side. "I _know_ him!"

"And her." Prouvaire's hands flail frantically in front of him. "Oh, do you _see_? Do you think...?"

"Feuilly." Grantaire's voice is harsh, rough with emotion and longing. "And—and Enjolras."

"Hm." Bossuet studies the stage with eyes that are no less intent than the rest of them, but a smile flits about her mouth. "I think you're right. But I'm also thinking... T'Challa and Captain America?"

Joly rolls her eyes. "Really? Captain America?"

"Hey, that shield gets around almost as much as Thor's hammer! And _one_ of them has to be Captain America."

"I don't know." Grantaire's lips twitch up into a smile as well. "I'm fine with Feuilly as Captain America, but Enjolras... Enjolras is supposed to be someone else."

Combeferre gives Grantaire a considering look but then bites. "Who?"

Enjolras chooses that moment to brush his hair away from his face, leaving a little curl dangling down on the right side of his forehead.

"Isn't it obvious?" Grantaire grins, showing more obvious enthusiasm than Combeferre thinks he's seen from the man since DC announced a Jason Todd movie—a movie that Grantaire had cheerfully agreed would almost certainly be terrible, but at least, he had cackled, it would _exist_. "He's Superman."

Bahorel begins pushing his way through the crowd, moving their little crew closer to the stage. "You're such a DC fanboy. Wouldn't you rather see him as a starship captain?"

Courfeyrac pokes Bahorel's arm. "Wouldn't _you_ rather see him as a mecha pilot?"

"Nah." Bahorel shakes his head. "I'd rather see him as the red from a very large sentai team. Can't you see it? Our fearless leader charging into danger, directing us carefully? Someone like Akashi from Boukenger—"

Combeferre isn't able to follow the rest of the conversation, too much noise from the crowd around them and Enjolras' words drowning them out.

It doesn't matter. He knows his friends. He knows what the gist will be—the combination of geeky humor and political savvy and fierce determination that defines his friends, in this life and any other.

They will be complete again. Somewhere in the back of his head, in the dark trunk of nightmares and knowledge that links him to a dozen other lifetimes, the core of _Combeferre_ gives a sigh of relief.

It will likely mean trouble. It will likely mean having to take stands and draw lines and balance desires that don't always mesh well—a desire to protect and a desire to heal and a desire to do what is _right_.

But they will be _together_ , and if he knows his people there will also be laughter and a sharing of heroes and a melding of vision and more than a little bit of silliness such as cosplay, and in the end...

In the end, he is Combeferre, and he has his friends at his side and knowledge in hand and a wide, wondrous world to explore and discover. No matter what price he will have to pay for that, he is certain that the gains will be worth the cost.


End file.
